


Don't Be A Stranger

by NothingAlarming



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fallout Kink Meme, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingAlarming/pseuds/NothingAlarming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon is in bad hands. Gob tries to help.</p>
<p>(Originally posted on the FalloutKinkMeme here: http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=15387091#t15387091 )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning, I find the Capital Wasteland particularly hard to write so this might read differently than my New Vegas works. Hope you enjoy anyway.

It’s just like life to throw a curveball to keep you on your toes. Moriarty passed a few weeks back and while Gob and Nova tried not to look too happy about it—if just to avoid suspicion—it was more than a blessing. They had drinks. Not to celebrate, they told themselves, but the shared façade was thrown to the wayside after the forth mugful of wine and they gave up on pretending. They were finally going be able to run the place without that bastard’s nit-picking—without their debts. They were going to live a little easier. They were going to be happy, and they are happier already. And no, nothing is instant. It’s still reflex to look over their shoulders when they get too loud or flinch when Gob lets slip some snappy remark, but thing are getting better. Cozier.

Then the vault kid starts visiting more. At first they toted raider garbage and a shitty 10mm pistol. Now it is stolen Talon armor and some kind of assault rifle, but it almost doesn’t matter because all that tells Gob is they absorbed the wastes like a sponge. He watches their fingers twitch and tap unsteady little beats while he waits for Gob to notice him, watches Charon stare straight through him and he feels the rift even before he talks. The kid is high.

Still he utters the same old words: _What’ll it be?_

Their eyes fly to him. Their mouth grins too wide, too strained, shows too many teeth. And asks for all of his Stims and a pack of Mentats (or two) if he has any. Gob glances at Charon again and immediately regrets it. This is an old argument, perhaps an unspoken one, but he knows the fire in Charon’s gaze is trying to shake him from obliging the kid’s addiction. Money is money, he thinks, but when he gives the kid what they wants, his handful of Stims is all he gives him.

_Fresh out of Mentats, sorry_. A lie, but it soothes the worm in his gut, and Charon isn’t staring him down so hard. The kid’s brow furrows sharply. Their eyes pinball from Charon to Gob, and he grimaces with an understanding. The kid has never been rude to Gob, not to anyone in Megaton, but they’ve been to DC since then, haven’t they? So when they leave, caps hit Gob’s face and the floor with a clatter.

Nova pats his wrist, suggests a break. He doesn’t follow through with the idea until after closing and finds himself chain smoking on the balcony for a good hour or so. When he spots Charon skulking up the rail—alone—he shakes his head.

“What, did he send you to shake the chems outta me?”

Charon only puts two fingers to his lips, as good as a ‘no’ as anything, he supposes. Gob is relieved as he fishes out a cigarette and a match.

It is by no means a companionable silence, but Gob doesn’t find himself repelled as he once was back when all he knew of Charon was the asshole he worked for. Not that the new guy was much better. In hindsight, Gob cannot recall a time when Charon was allowed to step out unsupervised, but it has been, what, fifteen years since then?

“He’s with Leo Stahl.” Charon’s voice shakes him out of his thoughts, but the shock wears to a dull understanding. _Oh._

“Using?” He catches Charon’s nod in his periphery. “That’s why you’re out here. So you can’t chaperone.” He doesn’t nod this time. He doesn’t have to. “Y’know, when they get in this deep, you can’t stop them. There’s always something they can get into. Always something to sell to get what they want.” The bright orange cherry of Charon’s cigarette catches his eye. It’s almost down to the filter already, so Gob fishes out another just in case. And one for himself. Just in case. Gob sighs at the twinge of irony in that. “I guess I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

The fairy lights flicker on one string and the shadows falling from the rails twitch until the current steadies. It’s late.

They spy the kid tumble out of the Brass Lantern and scurry up to their house after about an hour, but they keep smoking until the dirty pale blue morning peeks up over the junk town walls. Gob yawns, he should really get to bed soon.

“Should you be going?” He asks tentatively.

“I have not been ordered to return.” He says matter-of-factly, and Gob can’t stop himself from snorting at his petty tone. Charon doesn’t smile, doesn’t shift his gaze. Gob nudges him with the blunt of his elbow.

“Hey.” He says, quiet. Charon still isn’t moving. “Hey, now.” Nothing. Feeling utterly useless, Gob scrambles. “You need a room? I can just put it on the kid’s tab?” Finally, he looks over to him, and Gob grins a little.

“No.”

And with that he leaves. Gob is stuck between thoughts—sleep, and the realization that he could’ve put the room on his _own_ tab—when suddenly all he can think is _what if the kid had sold Charon out_? Gob thinks of Nova and the walls she built up. The powder covering her bruises. He recalls all the times she playfully admonished him— _don’t you know, Gobbie? I’m indestructible._

He shudders.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t stop thinking about it. Tries turning down the dial on the Radio when Three-Dog talks about the kid, but it doesn’t help. More than just selling him, what _else_ has the kid made him do? Not a lot of bad, he thinks. Tries to think. He fights the Good Fight. Together, they carved a path through the mutant-infested ruins of DC. Muties dead. Talon Company dead. Slavers dead. He wants to believe that the ono-oh-one on the radio was the only one that mattered, but he saw the sallow skin on their face, the sunken cheeks. The temper. He who fights with monsters becomes one and all that… And then there is Charon...

For a few weeks, Gob doesn’t sleep easy.

 

The next time the kid comes into town he doesn’t see either of them—doesn’t even hear about them—until three nights in. Charon comes again. And again, he is alone and the rage is clear in his face, his posture. Gob feels his bones go cold and tells Nova he needs a break. Without a word, Charon follows him back out.

Gob doesn’t even smoke for the first few minutes, just holds the rail real tight so his hands don’t shake. Charon brought his own smokes. Gob feels utterly pathetic. Here Charon is, back from doing god knows what and Gob is the one who can’t stop squirming. When Charon prods his elbow with a cigarette in his hand, lit and ready, he wonders whom is helping whom. He thanks him, the word feeling oddly empty even as he inhales and lets his shoulders relax for the first time in, what, a month? The other man continues to say nothing as he smokes.

The fairy lights flicker, and the sight is already sort of nostalgic. Gob wonders if Charon notices the lights, but besides that, he wonders if the kid is with Leo again. He decides not to ask. Addictive behavior doesn’t leave room for much unpredictability, so that much should be spoken for. Still.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped you.” Charon says suddenly. Gob almost asks what for but he continues. “Maybe he would’ve OD’d.” _Oh._

Gob looks at Charon, measures the tightness in his jaw before letting himself laugh. He looks back at him with the faintest of smirks on his face and something about it makes the skin on Gob’s neck perk up with goosebumps. Gob wants to _say hardly stopped me doing anything but for the fear of god you put in me_ , but decides that sounds strange so he keeps it to himself.

“Been thinking.” He says instead. _About you. About the kid. About what the kid may or may not do to you_. He tries to sort it out without sounding like such a sap, but Charon is looking at him out of the corner of his eye expectantly and he gives up. “About this whole thing.” He says weakly.

Charon snorts and lights another cigarette, and then another for him. Gob accepts and tries not to think about their fingers touching or what his trigger finger callouses look like.

“What are you, getting attached to me or something?”

Gob tries to shrug, but fuck if the suggestion didn’t make his belly flutter around even if it was a joke. Sort of.

“I hate thinking about what he puts you through. I don’t know. I don’t know what he puts you through, but I hate thinking about it.” Christ. Every word is another shovel full of dirt in this hole he is digging, but then, what’s so bad about being in it? He collects himself, if just a bit. “Just wish I could do something.”

It’s Charon’s turn to shrug.

“I’ve had worse.” His deflated tone makes Gob think of Nova and suddenly his words feel more meaningful.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

Charon flexes his jaw. Shrugs again.

“You could buy my contract.”

Gob only stares. He’s serious.

“So the solution is to pass you around like a relay stick? Isn’t there a way out of the contract?” He abruptly turns to him bodily, unblinking. Even without his voice to carry it the message was clear. _What a stupid question_. The catwalk creaks as Gob shifts feet, tries to retract but it’s too late so he tries again. “So what if I did? What then?” Charon’s face glows red as he drags on his cigarette, he looks away.

“I would not be in his service.”


	3. Chapter 3

Charon returns the next evening like clockwork. He goes so far to sit at the bar and wait for him. Gob is taking stock in the back room, unknowing of Charon’s presence until Nova pops in with a coy little grin.

“Your favorite customer is here.” His head jerks to meet her gaze. Too quickly, he realizes, but he bends around the door frame to check Charon’s posture anyway. Stiff as always, but his face isn’t screwed into the quite the same scowl as usual, which is… something, he supposes.

Gob catches his gaze and holds up a finger. _One second_. Charon nods. He returns to the back room to resume his work only to find Nova sitting at the terminal, a smile playing on her lips.

“So you and the big guy, hm?”

“What?” As soon as he says it, it hits him. “Oh, no, he’s just... Uh.” He has nothing to offer, but unlike Three-Dog, Gob doesn’t enjoy putting people’s business out in the open. Even if it is Nova. “We’re friends.” Close enough. Of course, she doesn’t look to buy it, but he had to stutter about it like a school boy, didn’t he?

She shakes her head, smiling. “Just let me know if you need to drop out of any late night drinking sessions, okay Gobbie?”

He feels his face warm up at the thought, and his neck. He squirms in place and grins sheepishly. It wasn’t unusual for her to bring up their… affairs—in closed quarters, that is—but they were both still _working_ right now. And he wasn’t fucking Charon. Still.

“I need to sit where you’re sitting.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take care of it. You take care of your…friend.” The unnecessary emphasis on _friend_ only spells out more teasing to come, he knows, but he can’t find a place to be miffed by it. Especially not with Nova. Especially when he _did_ need to be taking care of his _friend._

He mouths a _thank you_ before he goes.

                         

Charon does seem happier tonight, or more accurately, better tempered than usual. Gob thinks of staying quiet, if just to retain a neutral atmosphere. And because he knows Charon could go _hours_ without a word, but then Charon goes and speaks anyway.

“I have an idea.” He starts and seems to wait for Gob to turn to him before continuing. “About how you could obtain my contract.” Gob takes a long drag of smoke to prepare himself. He just hopes it doesn’t involve violence. Besides the obvious, it wouldn’t do any good if two slavers went down in a row while he’s around to see it.

“Yeah?”

Charon nods, once. “All your caps and all your chems. It just may work.”

 _All_ his caps? That’s Abraxo boxes and new supplies and food and not to mention his and Nova’s _paycheck_. And the costs of the chems would take months to recover, not including potential business lost due to their absence. And yet… Gob does not find himself opposed. They’ve gotten by on less when Moriarty was still in charge. They would live. Still.

“It _may_ work. The kid bought you because he knows the value of protection. Regardless of how fucked off he is, I’m not sure he’s stupid enough to just hand you over for a temporary high.”

“You said yourself he would sell _anything_.” Gob tries not to flinch at his tone. It doesn’t work. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes with a shaky hand only to find it empty. Charon nudges him with his own smoke. It’s halfway burned and gone, but Gob accepts anyway. Goosebumps flood his skin when he wraps his lips around the filter, still wet from Charon’s mouth. He shifts from foot to foot as smoke fills his lungs, not unpleasantly. He tries to breathe, tries not to think of the same juncture of thoughts that have kept him scattered for days—weeks—but he has to know.

“Charon…” Gob starts, but he doesn’t get to finish.

“He will not want me if I am broken.” Their eyes meet and Gob is frozen by the determination in his gaze, but…

_What?_

He isn’t even sure he heard Charon correctly, but he already has one long leg over the rail and just as Gob registers what is happening Charon is plummeting. He feels himself gasp rather than executes it. Feels Charon’s name rise out of his chest, loud and sharp. The sound of Charon’s heavy form hitting cold dirt is coupled with a _crunch_ that stabs Gob right in his chest. He’s running down the catwalk with his heart in his throat, vaguely aware that his cigarette fell out of his mouth as his footsteps thunder down shanty boards and sheet metal. He leaps over the last rail in his panic, sending awful waves of discomfort through his ankles, but he has to get to Charon. He almost sighs. It not quite as bad as he thought. One of Charon’s legs is twisted awkwardly under him, and his right arm is broken at the humerus. He can’t tell for the bulk of his armor, but his shoulder is most likely dislocated as well. It’s not the worst that can happen when someone jumps thirty feet, but that doesn’t stop Gob from shaking.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Perhaps that isn’t the right thing to say, but in any case, Charon says nothing in return. He just breathes real hard, nearly growling, with his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth squeak. Gob kneels to him, but he has no idea what to do. He wants to help, but is he supposed to? What made him think this was a good idea? How did it get this bad? What has the kid done to him? Why didn’t he do something sooner? A manic wave of adrenaline helps him pull Charon upright, forces his arms to clench around him so he was neatly pressed to his body. Charon growls out his name, once, then twice. Gob didn’t realize he was babbling half his thoughts, but his mouth clamps shut at his name.

“Drag me to the clinic and get the kid.”

Gob did as he was told.


	4. Chapter 4

Things happened very quickly. When the kid, red-eyed and sweating, asked Charon what happened, he said only: _I fell_. He then yelled at Charon for his carelessness and flipped a table. The Doc vanished to safety outside his clinic and woke up Simms. In his rampage, not once did the kid strike Charon, but he came close. Within inches. When the kid jerked away from him, Charon did not flinch, and the brat proceeded to wreck a chair on the nearest wall. _Physical violence on the employer’s part invalidates the sanctity of the contract_ , Gob finds out later. If Gob had not witnessed the little shit’s resolve just then, and if he had known the stipulation about physical violence, he probably would’ve sooner suggested Charon provoke his temper instead of breaking an arm and a leg. In that instant it seemed there was much Gob didn’t know.

All in all, things turned out better than expected. The kid didn’t ask for money or chems. Didn’t really have time to with a certain sheriff pointing his rifle at the kid’s nose. Just glared at Charon and Gob with his hands up in defense, dug the contract out of his leather jacket and tossed it before turning to his house. He was gone by morning.

Things happen quickly, but they are by no means instant.

Charon is as good as Gob’s, much to their chagrin. Another stipulation he finds: _The employee may not own their respective contract._

“What if I… order you to own it?” He tries.

Charon shakes his head from his place in Gob’s bed, all cozied up in braces and casts and the one comforter they owned. He is already doing better in the three days he’s been bed ridden. Gob would sooner accredit his healing to the kid’s departure—and subsequent exile—than the Stims Doc Church pumped into him.

_What a stupid question._

Gob is disappointed, because of course it can’t be that easy, but he has to admit things don’t have the same sting to them as before. There isn’t so much spite in Charon’s voice now, and Gob is not afraid to talk to him. Not as much anyhow.

“What if it’s destroyed?” The contract’s laws are thorough, but there is a surprising absence of rules in the event that it is no more.

Charon’s gaze pins him sharply, and were he not already fixed into such a rigid position, Gob would’ve thought he froze in place. Slowly, almost restfully, Charon closes his eyes.

“I do not know.”

The contract is supposed to outlive him, he realizes.

Gob sits on the bed carefully, so the dip of his weight does not shift him. He thumbs the fine print on the paper thoughtfully, and wonders what would happen if he ‘accidentally’ rubbed the ink off. He decides not to ask another stupid question.

“So if I tuck it in your pocket, is that what—supposed to stop me? What would you have to do?” Everything in the contract works under the assumption that the employer will not break the rules any more than the employee; however, Gob is not enforced by any programming.

Charon can’t shrug easily, so he twitches his mouth instead.

“So…we’ll try that.” Charon’s eyes open in an instant. His breathing quickens, but he does not object so Gob sets to work. He folds it back on its creases and stuffs it into the breast pocket on his shirt. Charon’s breathing picks up even more and his eyes screw shut. He grunts out something but Gob doesn’t hear what except one word: _Go_.

He goes.

Later that night when Doc Church checks up on Charon he returns to Gob looking very concerned.

“He’s responsive, but not much. His leg and his arm are nearly completely healed and you can remove the casts by tomorrow or later tonight. He appears to be repressing his pain, which brings me to his fever…” Gob’s heart falls into his stomach. _A fever?_ “I injected two doses of Med-X, as one didn’t bring it down any, but you’ll have to watch him tonight and see how he fares…” Gob drowns out the rest. He is no doctor, but under no circumstance has a fever come after Stim usage in his time or any before. It just isn’t heard of.

It has to be the contract. Something in the programming that he knows so little about. Like an override switch. A failsafe.

Gob hopes he didn’t fuck something up. What if he caused him to become feral somehow? He chain smokes in the back room until his shift is over. He’s vaguely aware of Nova’s voice when he emerges, but his ears are ringing too much so he just waves as he swings around the corner and up the stairs. It could’ve been the smoke, but Gob feels nauseous on the way up.

To his relief, Charon is dead asleep. His breathing seems normal, raspy, but normal. Almost fearfully he touches his forehead. It’s this moment when Gob realizes how clammy his hands are, but Charon feels fine in any case. Still, he nervously nit-picks at his blanket for lack of things to do until Charon is more than sufficiently tucked in. He doesn’t realize Nova is in the doorway until her voice makes him jump.

“Gob.” Serious. “I think you need to rest.” Feeling oddly guilty as he turns to face her, he nods. Tentatively, she steps forward and takes his hand. “I know you care about him, but you can’t take care of him if you’re running yourself ragged.”

“I know, I know.” He says quietly.

“ _Gobbie_.” She strokes his thumb. He meets her gaze slowly. He knows that tone. “Why don’t you relax and have a drink, huh?” He wants to, but he also wants to say ‘no’. What if something happened to Charon when he was gone? He shakes his head. Nova’s brow furrows a bit. She’s still worried, he knows, but what can you do? A corner of her mouth picks up. “So it’s official, huh? You and him?”

He’d almost forgotten about her teasing from a few nights ago. He grins and shrugs, because he doesn’t know anymore and she won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Looking at the way he’s fussing over him, he can’t blame her. Maybe it has come to that, he thinks.

“Just promise me you’ll get some sleep? Okay?” She holds his face in her soft hands, fixing their gazes to meet. He removes them gently, nodding. She smiles and pulls him down for a hug. “Promise?” She says it like a tease. He gives her back a pat before responding.

_Promise._


	5. Chapter 5

Charon’s breathing remained the same after an hour, but something keeps Gob from leaving to get something to do while he waits for… something. In any case, he’s been on his feet all day, so he chalks his need to stay seated up to that, because Charon is fine, fine, fine, and there’s nothing to worry about. Probably. Charon shifts in his sleep, wiggling the arm that was formerly broken, and Gob catches himself when he _leaps_ at the subtle movement. He sighs. Perhaps he should be taking his rest more seriously.

He decides to throw a few caps in the register and pick himself out a decent bottle of whiskey to nurse, but when he returns he nearly drops it. Charon’s eyes are open.

“Hey.” Gob says. There’s a momentary twinge of guilt that he missed the moment of his awakening, but he shrugs it off. “How ya feeling?”

Charon twitches his mouth and asks if he’s sharing. It takes Gob three long seconds to register that he’s talking about the whiskey. He laughs nervously, nods. He starts to turn to get glasses when Charon rumbles about his leg braces.

“Oh, I guess you need help with that.”

Charon shoots him a look, and something about it almost makes Gob recoil, but the other man just rolls his eyes.

“Just hand me the bottle and help me,” he snaps without much harshness.

Gob feels a _yes, sir_ on the end of his tongue and bites it back. _Fuck_. He looks away when he tosses the liquor on the pillow adjacent to him and climbs up to help off his braces. Charon is not Moriarty. Not in any way, shape, or form is he even close, and yet...

He is still healing, he supposes.

He breathes deeper and tries to focus. The leg brace is easy enough, just clicks and snaps and a bit of jostling and it’s off. Doc Church must’ve run out of ideas for his arm, because it seemed he crafted a makeshift cast from bits of scrap and cloth. Removing it, it seemed like it did the job. The place where bone had just barely bit through the skin had only minimal scarring. Gob breathes a sigh of relief as he strokes the scar tissue idly. No, definitely not as bad as it could’ve been. Charon sort of grunts and Gob stops to let him uncork the bottle he’d been waiting to open. He takes three long swallows before thrusting it at Gob.

It hasn’t occurred to him until now how close they’ve been, this whole time.

He nearly stutters. “Y’know, on second thought, should you be drinking with all that feel-good in you?” He is only half-serious, ghoul physiology being what it is when drugs were introduced, but…

Charon rolls his eyes. “A double-dose of painkiller only lowered my fever and put me into a cat nap.” He shoves the bottle at him again and Gob takes it. “I believe I’m fine.”

Gob shrugs and takes a sip himself. Of course. He is worrying too much. He takes a few more sips and passes it back to Charon, who is giving him a strange look even as he drinks again. He works his jaw around for a moment and pats the spot next to him on the moth-eaten covers. With some hesitation, Gob turns himself around to sit upright next to him. He eyes the tarnished knob on the door, the waves in the grain. He notices for the first time how detailed the roses are in the wallpaper, faded as it is. This wasn’t always his room. He watches himself fidget with his hands, then he watches Charon abruptly take one in his own. Gob wants to curse at his heart for skipping a beat.

“I’m _fine_.” His voice is low, almost shaky, but Gob believes him. He feels his shoulders relax finally. He realizes he was waiting for that all night.

“I’m glad.” His voice seems loud to him, all gravel and tension. Charon sighs.

“I know.”

Gob looks over at him, almost embarrassed, and Charon hands him the last of the bottle. Gob decides he probably needs it.

Nearly the whole night they hold hands. Even sleeping, Gob keeps a light grip on at least two of Charon’s fingers, and it’s the best sleep he’s had in a while.


	6. Chapter 6

These things are never instant, but there are little things, little signs that show they are getting better.  Nova has always smiled at customers, but now the smile stays on well after she’s done with them. Well after the glasses are cleaned and put away and broken bottles are swept up. Well after the radio dial is turned low and the lights dimmed. She’s finding the energy to laugh at things again. She doesn’t talk about the other residents with as much resentment, not even Jericho.

She’s trying to forgive them, Gob thinks, and decides that’s a good thing. Even if Jericho doesn’t deserve it.

And Gob has his slips. Those times when people got a touch too demanding and he snaps. Sometimes he tries being more aggressive, tries to be the person he was before… all this. Other times he still retreats to cowering, his hands still shake, but it not as much these days. It’s not so bad.

Charon still won’t talk about what happened. Not about the kid. Not about the night Gob swore he was going feral. Won’t explain a thing, but Gob isn’t pushing either. He’s a little scared to push, but he saw Charon _smile_ the other day. It was one of Nova’s playful little jabs about him and Gob,  and he _smirked_ and that’s something isn’t it? Progress?

But god he wants to ask.

The saloon’s hours are technically twenty-four-seven, but at the hour the wind whistles through the boards and not even the thirstiest of patrons have the energy to drink any longer it’s as good as closed for the evening.

It’s been a week since the kid left. Four days since god-knows-what happened in Charon’s head and Gob has to know, so he throws some caps in the register and snatches a whiskey from the fridge. He doesn’t know if it will help Charon any, but it will probably, certainly help Gob.

It’s not a surprise when he finds Charon reading, he reads often now, but he is surprised by _what_ he is reading. He knows the saloon still has three copies in its inventory from back when Moira sold them a few of the first editions. However, considering who helped co-write it, _The Wasteland Survival Guide_ is one of the last things he thought he’d catch Charon reading. Maybe he is doing better than he lets on, Gob thinks, hopes.

After a few seconds, Charon looks up at him. The chair creaks as he uncrosses his legs and re-crosses them, tilts his head. Gob realizes he is staring. He shakes the bottle in his hand. Charon makes an affirmative noise in his throat and bookmarks his page using a ripped ten dollar bill. God, if he’d seen someone do that two-hundred years ago he might’ve flipped his shit, but now he just chuckles.

“Have you read this?” He asks after Gob takes his seat on the edge of the bed nearest to him.

Gob shrugs. “I read a little. Got busy.” He is not sure what ground he’s treading, and suddenly drinking sounds a bit more questionable, but he uncorks the bottle anyway. Charon snatches the book open again, points to a chapter about technology. Gob didn’t get that far.

“The kid lied here.” He looks at it again, snaps it closed. “He never went into the RobCo facility. He doesn’t know shit about robots. Doesn’t know shit about hacking either.” Gob feels a little shaken at the bitterness in his voice. He takes a drink and hands it to Charon. He just stares a moment. Something in his face changes as he takes the bottle. Gob realizes his hands were shaking again, if only slightly. He starts to speak, to apologize maybe, but he stutters and Charon quiets him.

“I’m sorry.”

No. _No_. That’s not what Gob wanted. He shakes his head. This is supposed to be about _him_. Charon stands, pulls Gob up. Even now, their heights are mismatched by about five inches, but Charon looks at him easily as if there were no difference. He has a way like that, taking up so much space while never making him feel small. Charon’s hands are on Gob’s shoulders, and Gob has no idea how to read the look on his face, but then, there isn’t much time to when he closes it abruptly by kissing him. He nearly gasps into his mouth. Gob is stock still, just absorbing the warmth and closeness of Charon’s body. It’s a new expression, he realizes, and he slides his hands up to pull Charon down further. Their lips are hard and worn and barely there but the kiss is a warm one nonetheless. By the time they part Gob has melted into Charon’s tight embrace and he’s forgotten all about how his hands shake every time someone raises their voice around him. It is short lived, unfortunately, because Charon isn’t finished apologizing.

“I should not have talked to you that way.” Gob presses his head into his chest like he’s trying to muffle the sound of regret in Charon’s voice.

“This wasn’t supposed to be about me.” He can sense the question, but he doesn’t want to wait for him to ask it. “I wanted to talk to you about the other night, Charon.” He tenses, pulls away. The anguish is clear in his face. Now it’s his turn to shake his head. He tries to turn away, but Gob takes his hands, he’s already shutting down.

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“Charon.” Serious. “What happened in there? Did you break the contract? Do you feel free?” It’s too much to ask at once, he knows, and maybe they’re the wrong questions too. “I have to know.” He says softly, rubs his thumbs over Charon’s knuckles.

Charon just grinds his teeth and stares at the floor. Gob waits, the tension sitting spoiled in his gut. He must be patient, even if he’s already ruined the notion by pressing him.

After a moment he jerks his hands away, takes the bottle in them instead. Gob wants to stop him, wants to apologize. It occurs to him he might be a lot angrier than he appears, what with their previous exchange. He knows he is holding back as is, but Gob suddenly doesn’t know what he has gotten into, or what to prepare for.

The whiskey smacks the metal patio table with a loud clang that makes Gob jump. Half of it is gone. His back is still to him.

“I do not know what happened. I know that something is broken, whether it is me or the contract, I do not know.” He pauses, turns to face Gob. Something blank and oddly vulnerable there instead of anger like he assumed. “I can’t feel it.” He says softly. Charon has never exactly been a man of words, but Gob thinks he understands. Understands better anyway. The hold is gone, but the pain is there. Pain he knows how to deal with. He takes his shoulders in his hands and waits until Charon looks at him to pull him down into another kiss. It begins tenderly enough, but ends even more electric than the first and Charon grasps onto him like a lifeline. When they break Gob laughs nervously, pulling on the other man’s collar to please let him do it again, but he pulls back a bit.

“I did not know what to say.” He says suddenly. “Before. Or I would have.”

Gob nods.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped you. I was just… worried, y’know?”

Now Charon nods. Then he sighs and _smiles_ , shaking his head. Something flicks on, like a switch. Perhaps this night won’t be so bad.

“You always worry.”


	7. Chapter 7

Charon pushes the rest of the liquor over to Gob, a sort of guilty admission somewhere in the gesture. As much as he’d like to slam it back, he goes slowly. He has the sinking feeling he’d get too chatty if he has too much too fast, and he’s already said enough. _They’ve_ already said enough.

For all his responsibility is worth, it doesn’t work very well. They’re companionably quiet enough, just reclining on the bed. They’ve pulled out a different book, the dog-eared one about the jerky vendor, and they’re both pretending to read it while Gob peppers kisses on Charon’s collar. Gob must’ve reached a spot he particularly likes, because Charon drops the book on his lap and grabs Gob’s head instead. He tries it again, just at the juncture between neck and shoulder, and bites. Charon groans, the sound more like an oddly contented growl, and stretches his neck for easier access.

At some point Gob replaces the book in his lap and they’re kissing up a storm between them—Charon’s long, breath-taking kisses punctuated by Gob’s hard little pecks. Everything moves slow and fast, pushing forward and pulling back, all body heat and Charon’s gentle hands tracing the lines of Gob’s body.

He breaks suddenly, has to just to steady his breathing.

“How did this happen?” Gob almost laughs through the words. Charon shifts a little. “I mean, back in Underworld I barely ever saw you, and I know we didn’t leave the best of impressions on each other. How did you know to come to me?” It’s true. As far as tavern keepers and apprentices went, Gob and Charon were naturally opposed by those who had say-so over them.

He sort of shrugs, hard to with about one-hundred-eighty pounds of Gob on top of him. “You could have made it worse—you did not. You tried to stop it.”

Gob shakes his head.

“But we never talked about our preferences. And it’s not like I have a bad radar for these things, but it wasn’t until three nights ago that I even pegged you for liking men. How did you know I did?” It sounds so odd out loud. All these premonitions and gut feelings just sort of played by ear or ripped from under the rug one. Charon moves his hands from Gob’s hips to his stomach, watches the way his shirt bunches up around him, watches muscles twitch under his touch. His eyes flick to Gob’s again and he smirks. Gob shivers a bit. He can get used to that look, he thinks. Charon pulls him down so he can kiss his neck and whisper:

“Better radar.”

They both chuckle even though it’s a cheap answer, even though it’s just as good as admitting he guessed.

Charon eventually pulls at Gob’s shirt hard enough he gets the point. He’s barely through removing it when Charon shifts, sits up and removes his own. It’s this point, with so much more heat and want than before, Gob realizes he has no idea where exactly this is going.

“You’ve done this before. Right?”

Charon freezes. His jaw clenches and he looks away before answering.

“Yes and no.”

 _Oh no._ Gob almost shudders. _What the fuck does that mean?_

“Charon?” His voice shakes without him meaning to. The other man’s eyes snap to him, mouth pursed. Every fear is flooding back to the forefront of his mind. “That doesn’t mean what it sounds like, does it?” He doesn’t answer immediately. “Did the kid—“

“ _No_.” He sighs tiredly, impatiently. “Not him. Others. A long time ago. Before I learned how to twist my contract to my benefit.” When Charon sees that Gob’s face is still pinched with concern he gives his hip a squeeze. He jerks, looks about to say something when Charon tugs at the button on his jeans. “What I mean by ‘yes and no’ is: not like _this_.” He tugs harder, pulls just right ‘til it pops loose. “With someone like you.”

Gob sighs a bit, half-smiling. Even if Charon is only sweet-talking him along so he will stop talking and doing nothing about the hard cock he’s been sitting on, it feels sort of nice. Gob has always been backwards about these things. Ready to jump into the heat of danger for someone, but the nitty gritty feelings that are left scattered in the aftermath are what makes him a shivering mess.

Charon pulls on his fly and of course it gives like it’s nothing. While Gob knows Charon is impatient to get started already, he still has no idea what he wants out of this.

“Do you wanna lead or—?”

“You lead.” Charon says adamantly, which is an awful strange tone to have when you’re stroking someone else’s erection through their pants, but Gob can’t find room to complain. He shouldn’t have dug so deep while they were in the heat of things, or he’d be harder now, but he always has to know what he knows will hurt him doesn’t he?

If anything, he is glad Charon seems to understand this.

They manage to shuffle off their clothes—holed socks and his worn-out jeans and awful stained boxer shorts that fit far too tightly, especially now, and once it’s all off there’s no way they could be close enough. Every patch of skin Gob sees, he kisses and licks. Every patch there isn’t, he sucks and bites. Charon is needy. If Gob is close enough he snatches any kisses he can, holds their bodies closer so they rut against each other until the friction almost hurts.

Gob is caught between wanting to make it last and obliging Charon’s need to make it happen faster. So he takes up his torso in quick, sloppy kisses, leaving a trail of saliva to the jut of his hipbones. When his mouth nears his cock, Charon arches his back and looks at him pleadingly. Gob gives in. Easing up Charon’s legs to make the next bit easier, he nestles his head down just enough to take him in his mouth. He takes his time getting used to his shape and girth with slow, slow sucks much to Charon’s chagrin. His hand ultimately finds Gob’s head and pushes, but Gob is stubborn, so he bucks into his throat. If his mouth weren’t full he might’ve laughed at his eagerness, but for all his exasperation, Charon is gentle enough. Just shallow thrusts to keep the movement going and his wheels spinning; however, he looks about to snap when Gob pulls off abruptly. Gob smirks, thinks about kissing him now just to be a tease, but he decides against it and moves on to wetting his fingers. Charon watches intently. Gob wonders how long he’s been gripping the sheets like that.

The next steps have always taken the longest as far as Gob remembers. Lovers he can’t recall the names of anymore would often complain about the preparation, would try to push past it sometimes or try to only get away with only a bit of spit and hope. But Charon just claws at the bed and grits his teeth as Gob probes his tongue below his cock, then his fingers. He makes a sound almost like mewling when Gob curls against the sweet spot. He takes his cock in his mouth again, still damp from before, and sucks hard while he stretches him. Charon grabs at his head again, mouth open but wordless. His legs tremble. He’s ready before long. The bed creaks as Gob moves into position. It’s about to creak a whole lot more, he thinks with a smirk.

Charon yanks him down to kiss him again, bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark and make his cock twitch against his own. Gob lines himself up, pulls away to ask with the line of his head if he’s ready. Charon is breathing hard. The heat between them is damp and heady and he can’t stop squirming. He nods.

Gob pushes in, almost chokes at how tight he still is. He watches for any sign of pain in Charon but there is none, just hard breaths pushing little desperate moans out of his mouth so Gob starts moving.

If Charon’s hands aren’t clawing at Gob’s back, mindful of any edges of skin he could accidentally peel, they’re clamped around his sides in a vice-grip. Pulling and pushing to the steady roll of Gob’s hips into him and goddammit they aren’t going to last very long.

He knows they just talked about it, knows it’s the last thing he needs to say again, but Gob’s mind still wanders back to the beginning of all this. A sad game of who’s helping whom, picking up pieces he can’t really glue back, and now, now all he can’t think is that he never wants it to happen again. Not to himself, not to Nova--

He grunts hard as he hits his limit, keeps desperately thrusting to make Charon reach his.

\--And not to Charon. He’s been in this hell longer than any of them. Especially not Charon.

He pulls Gob down again, bites his neck so his final cries are reduced to tiny growls and grunts as he spills onto his stomach. Gob whimpers. He’s oversensitive and so far past the point of stopping it nearly hurts, but he feels warm. Feels good. Out of breath and nuzzled against Charon’s head and wrapped up in everything else, he feels really good.

Charon sort of pushes at him and Gob pulls out. He pushes again and Gob makes a noise in his throat. His head is buzzing and he really doesn’t want to move. He could fall asleep like this.

“You are heavy.” His voice is strained against his neck. _Not near as heavy as you_ , he wants to quip, but he doesn’t. Gob chuckles.

“Alright, alright.” He leans back and sits on his legs. Takes a minute to gather his bearings. As worn-out as he is, looking at Charon with his come all over his stomach almost makes him want to crouch down and kiss him, clean him with his tongue.

They should really clean up, though.

“I’ll be right back.” Gob redresses and carefully steps downstairs. He thanks his lucky stars that Nova isn’t downstairs to tease him, or anyone else god forbid. There’s no doubt she heard. Even in the dark he finds a bowl easy enough, and a rag. And while the water he runs into it is regrettably cold, he feels like the thin bar of soap he discovers is a good enough consolation.

Charon has barely moved an inch from when Gob left, even so, he is not very impressed when Gob sidles up to him and tries to clean him off. He snorts and takes the rag from Gob, slinging water across the bed.

“I believe I can handle myself.”

Gob laughs.

“Sorry.”

Charon rolls his eyes as he wipes his stomach. He pauses before cleaning the rest, looks at Gob.

“Come here.” Gob raises a ruined eyebrow. “Come _here_.” Gob obeys with a smile. He’s pretty sure he knows where he’s going with this. He’s proven right when Charon wastes no time in wiping him off in neat little strokes. He isn’t exactly graceful, but he’s gentle, and despite the cold it feels nice. Charon looks him hard in the face when he’s done. He always seems to choose the strangest times to be serious. “Figured you’ve done enough taking care of me.”

Gob isn’t sure what to make of that, but he knows how he feels.

“Nonsense.”


End file.
